To Pinpoint When You Fell in Love
by moonbaby97
Summary: Sherlock and John spend a lazy morning in bed, though Sherlock still cannot figure out when it all started... Written for my Anon


Title- To Pinpoint When You Fell in Love

Author- moonbaby97

Disclaimers/Warnings - slash (boyxboy themes), characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC's modern adaptation, I'm still not making any money…

A/N: Sorry I haven't written anything lately guys. This is my first Johnlock too, dedicated to my anon in celebration of my reaching 221 followers. Let me know how I did :)

To Pinpoint When You Fell in Love

Sherlock didn't know when it started, no matter how long he thought about it, no matter how far back he traced his memories. He knew that when he first met John it had been minor necessity mixed with curiosity that led to their first meeting, then their second. Sherlock had been prepared to die that night when John shot the cabby, wouldn't have minded it if he had been wrong.

But John did shoot the cabby, so Sherlock never found out. If he were being honest with himself, which he almost always was, though less so on the subject of John, he would have said that was when it started. Obviously not physically, but subconsciously at least. Emotionally if he were being blunt. John was so brave and strong willed, so _good_, and there were so few people left in the world. More importantly he wasn't stupid or boring.

Maybe it was before John shot the cabby. Was it when he followed Sherlock through the streets of London without his cane? Or when they got back home and John laughed with him against the wall of 221B, panting and out of breath? Could it have been when John turned back to look at him, incredulous, shocked, when Angelo brought back the cane he hadn't even realized he had gone without?

Sherlock didn't know.

He had found that this, frustratingly, happened a lot with John.

John, who was asleep beside him, draped over him, really. In the same bed. Naked.

At first, the proximity, the touches the John never seemed to get tired if drove him insane. It was too much, too close. He remembered the first time John had kissed him. It was after a case, a difficult one, involving children, which always upset John. Sherlock had solved it in just shy of a week, and though it would have taken the Yard at least a month, it was a long time for him. They "caught the bad guys" and turned the men over to Lestrade. Then they took a cab back to the flat, and the ride was silent; it was late and they were both exhausted, besides the fact that John didn't like the child cases, so Sherlock usually respected that boundary and didn't speak about them once they were solved. They walked into the flat normally, quiet, Mrs. Hudson was sleeping, and where they had first laughed about chasing cabs through the streets, John had pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

Sherlock, not liking the feeling of being trapped against the wall, though he knew reasonably he really wasn't trapped, had pushed John away, confused. But, oh, the look on John's face. Sherlock had immediately closed his eyes to save the mental image in his mind. His face had been so open, guard completely down. Words could not describe it, and later Sherlock had wondered if he always kissed people so openly. Maybe that had been when it started. No, definitely before that, because he was being honest with himself. It just intensified then.

It took a long time for him to see that expression on John's face again once he blew their first kiss. That sounded tediously romantic- "first kiss." Anyway, never mind.

That was why Sherlock didn't do relationships. They were messy, dangerous things. And it was so rare that he found anyone even remotely interesting enough for it to be an option in the first place. But once they got past the touches, the kisses, the emotions, the space, the work, the fear, and the 'no reckless danger' and 'no toxic chemicals or body parts on these shelves' rules, Sherlock could no longer imagine his life without John this way. Lestrade had told him when they first "came out," which John had insisted they do semi-formally, that it was all normal. Donovan had laughed at that, the thought of Sherlock being "normal." But normal was boring, so Sherlock didn't mind. John had looked like he was going to punch her. He didn't.

Then there was the sex. Sherlock had told John after their second first kiss (which was admittedly so much better it had led to a third) that he was not a sexual person. At all. John insisted that it was fine, and two months later, balls deep in Sherlock's arse, he had respectfully disagreed. Two month after that, while he was repaying the favor, Sherlock had to agree with him. Though he did still point out occasionally he was only a sexual person with John. They still needed to take it slow, but John was great about it. A month later, they first told exchanged I love you's, and that had been scary enough, though John had said it once or twice before to him. But John was great about everything, that's just how he was. Sherlock knew he was a lot to put up with, considering he was obnoxious intentionally half the time, but John took it all in stride. He was Sherlock's socially moral north.

John shifted in his sleep and woke slowly, nuzzling his head under Sherlock's chin and disrupting his thoughts, though not unpleasantly. "Thinking still?" John mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. Sherlock often stayed up later than John thinking about cases or just things in general, keeping busy. He loved John like this, though, and never grew tired of hearing that sleepy mumble.

"I was; it's fine," Sherlock replied honestly; sometimes it wasn't and John would nod, not saying another word lest it disrupted him. He rested an arm lazily over John's back, a possessive gesture he knew John was fond of.

John smiled against the skin of his collarbone, pressing a small kiss there, "You were thinking about us again, weren't you?" he questioned.

How John could guess when he was doing it and when he was thinking about anything else never failed to impress Sherlock. He placed a rewarding kiss to the top of his lover's head and nodded. "Yes."

"Did you figure it out yet?" John found it amusing that Sherlock was still trying to pinpoint one moment when he fell in love with him, but he also found it endearing in a way. Sherlock's way.

"No," Sherlock sighed in response, more of a huff, ruffling John's hair in the process. "Tell me again."

"Hmmm," John murmured, pretending to think about it, fo which he earned a sharp poke in the side. "Alright," John chuckled, taking Sherlock's hand in his own and lacing their fingers together. "You have always been brilliant, and the more I watched you put your life in danger for the sake of a case, the more I realized I didn't want to lose you." John knew it sounded sappy, but when you watch someone you care about throw himself across rooftops and into numerous dangerous situations like he did, it was true. Sherlock had scoffed at him the first time he had said it, but he knew the detective secretly enjoyed hearing it. "At the pool, when I saw the red dot on your forehead, and I knew I couldn't even give my life to spare your insufferably intelligent one. That's when I knew." John's voice had dropped to a whisper as he talked. He still worried about Sherlock almost constantly, the way he didn't eat, drink, or even sleep for that matter, enough to possibly be considered healthy. The way he continuously threw himself in harm's way, head first. John had thought at first he might get used to it, but he realized now he never would.

"Knew what?" Sherlock pressed, wanting to hear John say it, his voice still soft around the edges, a little heavy with sleep.

"That I loved you, you pretentious git," John complied with a chuckle.

"Sherlock smiled, a rare, genuine smile, He could feel the vibrations of John's chest against his own, and he reveled in the sensation. "That was not quite what I was going for."

"Would you prefer self-righteous prick?" John teased, making Sherlock almost audibly roll his eyes.

"I love you too, you idiot," Sherlock replied, placing another small kiss to the top of John's head. He could say it freely now, though he still didn't say it as often as John did, not that he seemed to mind too much. He had gotten used to the little kisses John liked too, even enjoyed them, knowing they made John happy, made him feel wanted. And oh, was he wanted.

They had come a long way from that "first kiss."

A long way from that one moment Sherlock couldn't place.


End file.
